


Sinking Like a Stone (Carry On)

by iamnightbird



Series: Carry On [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, blind!Stiles, injured!Stiles, lots of angst for poor Stiles, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnightbird/pseuds/iamnightbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale is convinced he can protect his pack from anything. Kanimas, other packs, even the supernatural that remain myths (like demons and the such), but an event hits him like a punch to the gut to remind him that the things he can’t protect his pack from are the everyday horrors in which life makes us her bitch. [Blind!Stiles]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sterek work and my first work on AO3, and I want to let everyone who helped me know that I appreciate it. Because otherwise I would still be staring at a blank Word document.
> 
> I do not explicitly state it in the chapter, but this story is set in Stiles's senior year of high school - roughly about a year after canon.

_Stiles heard pathetic pained whimpers that were interrupted by the occasional outburst of agony. Why didn’t they just shut up?! Didn’t they know that his head was killing him? Hell, his everything was killing him; it wasn’t centralized to one specific area. Who was—oh. It was him. He was making those god awful noises._  
  
 _However… that would make sense with all of the pain that he was feeling. Seeing as, with every outburst, his lungs burned._  
  
 _He heard another voice- a yelling, insistent chant. It was almost annoying and hard for Stiles to concentrate long enough to pinpoint the word that was repeated over and over. His hearing was ebbing in and out – nothing but darkness danced across his vision._  
  
 _His hand moved weakly across the surface below him- his limbs felt heavy; like lead. He felt like he was moving his fingers miles, when in reality it was barely centimeters. And just that action alone made him feel weak to his stomach. He heard something that sounded like glass shifting against each other between his fingers- and he felt something warm and wet amongst the shards._  
  
 _“Stiles! STILES!” The last cry of his name echoed in his mind as if it had been screamed down an empty hallway. He felt something - or someone - hold a hand to his neck. A tingling, warm, pleasant sensation originated there and spread through his body. He just wanted to go to sleep—he wanted to give into whatever warmness was threatening to swallow him and lull him to sleep. He just had to-_  
 _\----_  
  
Scott used a free hand to brush his hair out of his eyes from where it flipped into his view because of his hunched over position - eyes glued to the textbook. It was getting late (two in the morning, if he went by Stiles’ clock on his nightstand; red numbers blurred into his vision and making his eyes ache) and all of the words were beginning to meld together and just become pointless combinations of letters.  
  
He moved the hand that had been carding through his hair to instead rub against his eyes, the pad of his hand making colors dance before his lids. Why did they even think that this was a good idea? Passing their American History test was as good as any dream they could’ve had if they would’ve just said _fuck it_ and went to sleep.  
  
His concentration, which was already split in many different directions, was tried once again by the faint sound of music. His eyebrows furrowed inwards, head tilting up just a little as he tried to narrow down the location of it. It _could’ve_ been as close as the next room over _or_ as far as the house next door. Though, his mystery didn’t go unsolved for too long when the silence of the room was broken with-  
  
 _“Tell me - did you sail across the sun? Did you make it to the milky way to see the lights are faded?”_  
  
Of course, no one was giving him a live concert in Stiles’ room because the voice was so far from the right pitch that it made his insides cringe and he wanted to either rip his ears off or the vocals cords of the source out. And, it was obviously... “STILES!” he snapped, reaching across the space separating them, grabbing the cord of the earbuds, and yanking them from Stiles’ ears, stopping him mid, _“...did you fall from a shoo-”_ and earning him a loud yelp in response.  
  
“Dude!” Stiles started, grabbing the headphones back from Scott and pausing the song, “Rude much?” He rubbed at one of his ears with a hand where the earbud had been forcefully ripped out, frowning at the male.  
  
There was no way that Scott would’ve been able to stop himself from rolling his eyes before he gestured down to the still open book (and flashcards) in the floor, _“Dude,”_ he echoed, exasperation evident in his voice, “We’re supposed to be studying. Not singing crappy nineties music.”  
  
Stiles made a sound like he was offended, holding a hand up and shaking his head, “Excuse you, Scott McCall, _Drops of Jupiter_ came out in 2001. And _Train_ is not a crappy artist. They-”  
  
Scott cut him off with a scoff, “Whatever, man. We’re supposed to be learning about American History, _not_ how badly you can - or can’t - carry a pitch.”  
  
The human groaned a bit, shaking his head as he half hazardly tossed his iPod underhanded onto his unmade bed, the electronic bouncing slightly before landing near his pillow. “You know what my problem is?”  
  
“You have the attention span of a gnat?”  
  
Stiles disregarded the other’s comment and continued, “My stomach is hungry. I need power food. Cookies, man.” If Scott hadn’t been there with him the entire time, he would’ve put his bets on Stiles being high and having the munchies. But, of course, it could’ve just been his round-about way of avoiding studying. No. It _was_ his round-about way of avoiding studying.  
  
“We can’t make cookies, Stiles,” he told him, his tone almost condescending like he was speaking to a child, “It’s two in the morning and there’s no way in hell that you wouldn’t wake up half the neighborhood in the process.”  
  
Stiles gave a quiet bark of a laugh as if that was the most ridiculous assumption, “I don’t want to make cookies,” he reassured him before pausing and adding, “I want to go to the store and _buy_ some cookies. Maybe some milk, too.”  
  
Scott glared, eyebrows raised as he dropped his hand down on the textbook. “We’re _not_ going to the store at two in the _morning_ to buy you cookies.”  
  
\----  
  
And so now we find Scott buckling himself into Stiles’ jeep and wondering how the hell his best friend always manages to talk him into the stupidest shit. Like looking for half of a dead body in the woods and going to the store to buy avoidance cookies.  He slouched back against the seat and crossed his arms, avoiding looking over at Stiles as he heard the engine purr to life in the dead of the morning. “Can we just get this over with?” he asked him.  
  
It was Stiles’ time to roll his eyes, adjusting the radio to find a station that didn’t have an obnoxious amount of static and white noise, “Get your claws out of your ass, Scott, or else you might take Derek’s title as Sourwolf.”  
  
Scott let out a breath of air and looked out the window as they began to drive, “Wouldn’t want to break the news to Derek about _that,_ now would I? Poor guy would be devastated.”  Stiles could hear so much sarcasm in Scott’s voice that it almost left a bitter taste in his mouth.  
  
About half an hour later, Scott found himself in the same position - not any more happy about being out at practically three by this point. The only change was that there was now a bag of cookies and a pint of milk by his feet in the floorboard. “Happy?” he prompted the driver.  
  
Stiles looked over at him for a moment and flashed him a grin before turning his attention back to the road, rain beginning to be conspicuous against the dull, orange street lamps. The water was already beginning to settle against the California pavement and making it shimmer under the moon. (The crescent moon, thank you.)  “I’ve got Oreos and milk - I’m a happy man, Scott.”  
  
Whatever retort that was on Scott’s tongue was lost and the events that followed happened too quickly to track at the time and he would only be able to look back on it to see all of the small details.  
  
None of Scott’s werewolf senses could’ve prepared him for the moment of impact. That moment can change everything. The moment where everything flips on its side and makes your life come screeching to a sudden halt as the force of the impact pushes you in the opposite direction. Something that winds you, pains you and makes your life hell - but in the end makes you stronger. So they say.  
  
It was an onslaught of sounds and sensations that neither teen had the time or will to pick apart and pinpoint. A screech of tires. The haunting silhouette of a black pickup whose lights weren’t on as it swiveled around the slick road. A knee jerk reaction from Stiles as he pulled the wheel hard to the side in an attempt to avoid the front fender. The sound of someone’s heart catching in their throat. And, further off, the gentle pelting of the rain against the ground - one small peaceful aspect in the chaos of the moment that pulled the madness of it into perspective.  
  
Stiles’ attempt to avoid the truck proved futile, the side of his precious jeep assaulted by the front end of the truck - and while it sounded as innocent as cans crunching, the effect was far more consequential than that. The wheels of the jeep closest to the impact was forced off the road and the weight of the vehicle then caused it to go into motion - tumbling down the hill in a mixture of colors and _pain._ After what felt like years, but in reality was mere seconds, the jeep came to a painful, crunch of a stop against a tree. The sudden stop of momentum caused Scott’s head to snap forward against the dashboard - his entire world spinning and ringing. His body felt like it was on fire, but due to his unique wolf perks, the feeling was already beginning to ebb away. He fists his hands into his hair, his movements sluggish, as he let out a groan through gritted teeth.  
  
It took a moment for his brain to catch up. Stiles. _Stiles._ He blinked his eyes open, his world struggling to come into focus as he located the boy next to him. And... how had he not picked up on Stiles’ noises before hand? The kid was practically _wailing_ next to him, hands bloodied from the glass that had rained down on the dash. His honey eyes darting around wildly like a rabbit caught in a trap and seeking an escape, his chest heaving hard, and noises that were sure to haunt Scott’s dreams for years to come leaving his small body. “Stiles! Stiles!” he called out to the boy in any attempt to stop him from making _those noises_. He was also trying to assess Stiles’ situation as quickly as he could. The only light they were provided with was the flickering headlights of the jeep that were somehow still active in the totaled condition of it. “Stiles! Can you hear me?” He didn’t want to touch him because he didn’t want to hurt him. But, Stiles wasn’t answering him, the brown eyes now hidden by his eyelids. “Stiles, don’t you do that. Open your eyes - look at me! _Stiles.”_ Scott was feeling many things. Fear. Anger. Fear. Pain. Did he mention _fear?_  
  
Scott could easily get himself out of the jeep. But, as he examined Stiles, the leg furthest from Scott seemed to be jammed between the tree and the mangled metal of the jeep. And, true, Scott could pull him from it - but he could also possibly further injure Stiles. And that was a chance that he couldn’t take.  
  
Scott was about _seconds_ from panicking, because... of course the truck was gone. Of course, _of course._ His phone was at Stiles’ place still and... fuck if he knew where Stiles’ phone was. He was desperate and Stiles seemed to be losing consciousness fast; he already seemed unaware. Trying to be as gentle as possible, he rested the palm of his hand against Stiles’ neck, the boy still keening loudly in pain - so much so that it made Scott’s heart ache to the core. He had never done this before, but he had seen it done. And, hell... this was his best friend. He swallowed hard as black veins spiderwebbed up his arms, Stiles’ whimpers subsiding ever so slightly.  
  
Scott was at the end of his rope and he didn’t know what else to do. It was three thirty in the morning and they were alone, wrecked on the side of the road. And he had no idea what state Stiles was in.  
  
Amongst the rain that was picking up power, Scott’s pleading, broken howl echoed across the trees of Beacon Hills.  

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale is convinced he can protect his pack from anything. Kanimas, other packs, even the supernatural that remain myths (like demons and the such), but an event hits him like a punch to the gut to remind him that the things he can’t protect his pack from are the everyday horrors in which life makes us her bitch. [Blind!Stiles]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that it took so long to get this chapter up, but as always, thank you for reading and enjoy.

To say that Derek was awoken by the howl would’ve more or less been a lie. Sure, an onlooker would’ve said he was asleep, but there was a large difference between lying in bed with his eyes closed and actually being asleep. And that difference became very apparent when the sound of a wolf’s howl reached his ears and his eyes snapped open. And it wasn’t just any wolf, it was Scott. Now, at that realization, a handful of thoughts began to rush around his head at the same time while he struggled to find one to work through.

The first one that he grabbed a hold of was _Why was Scott howling?_ Scott didn’t do the howling thing; because that meant crying out for help. From Derek. Scott was more or less his own alpha, as it were. Though, if one was entirely truthful, it was more Stiles that was the ringleader rather than Scott. Without the human, Scott would probably be wandering around lost half of the time. Stiles was always there at Scott’s side with answers to questions Scott had before he even asked them. So, that still left the question _Why was Scott howling?_

A wolf could read into another wolf’s howl almost as easily as someone could read into someone’s body language after they got to know them for a while. So, that prompted the question _Why did he sound afraid?_ It wasn’t a fear that you felt while staring down death, it was a fear that was more deeply ingrained than that. A fear that Derek himself knew quite well - usually a fear for other’s well being rather than your own. But, decoding that much still did not leave him with the answer _: Why did he sound so afraid?_  

Other questions remained unanswered. _Why so late at night? Who was he with?_ And probably the most important, _what the hell had happened?_

By this point, Derek was sufficiently worried. And that worry was what drove him to get out of bed, legs swinging to dangle off the edge of the bed as his eyes came to rest on his alarm clock. 3:15 AM. Trust Scott McCall to get his ass in a tight spot at three in the morning. Something told him that Stiles probably had something to do with it as well, since it was the human that was usually behind all of their crackpot ideas. And, as his keen ears told him, when it’s raining nonetheless. 

Sometime between Gerard spewing black goo and now, Derek had invested in a small, nice apartment. Especially with some prompting from the pack, telling him how creepy it was that no one really knew where he slept - or even did his ‘business’. And as much as he pretended that their bugging him didn’t bother him, he did admit to himself that an apartment that was all his own would be nice. So, here he was with an apartment and a lease.

Slipping himself off his bed, the springs of the mattress groaning in protest, Derek grabbed the first pair of jeans that he could. A little dirty and torn, but still wearable. And, despite the fact that most people thought that he repelled shirts and preferred to walk around topless, he grabbed a t-shirt as well and slipped it over his head, straightening it out as he left the bedroom and grabbed his keys from the table near the door.

And if McCall was pulling his leg, the teenager was going to wish that he was actually in some kind of trouble.

\----

It was five minutes later that Scott heard any sign that his cry for help had been heard, a distant and strong howl heard through the night that Scott vaguely recognized as Derek’s. He dropped his head back against his headrest before glancing over at Stiles.

Stiles’ condition looked to be getting worse, his skin paling and his eyes squeezed shut. Despite Scott struggling to try and draw out Stiles’ pain, the teen was still making noises that echoed in the back of Scott’s brain and made him sick to his stomach. Stiles looked to be only half aware, and Scott would be damned before he let Stiles slip away completely. He was mumbling nonsensical words of comfort and encouragement to Stiles to try and keep him awake.              

It seemed like hours later, when in reality it was mere minutes, when he heard the familiar roar of Derek’s engine before it skid to a stop about twenty feet from Stiles’ totaled Jeep.

“I’m not going anywhere, Stiles, I promise. I’m just going right outside the Jeep, okay? Derek is here now, he can call someone to help you,” he reassured the practically unconscious boy. The only evidence that Stiles was still somewhat conscious were the constant sounds of apparent discomfort and distress that weakly tumbled from his lips and chest.

Scott kicked his door open without much effort and used the sides of the door to pull himself out, stumbling on both feet before leveling himself on the wet grass. The rain had picked up, the drops visible against the weakening, flickering lights of the jeep - illuminating the spilled milk that was mixing with water and the broken, soggy cookies against the pavement. This made Scott’s stomach twist painfully before Derek’s voice pulled him back.

“What the fuck happened here, McCall?” he asked, nose wrinkling a little as the smell of pain and blood assaulted his senses quickly. And not just blood, Stiles’  blood. And lots of it too.

Scott, who usually could be calm in the face of danger and otherwise threatening situations, looked jittery and afraid; panicking as he shook his head at Derek. “We... We were driving. And this truck it just came out of nowhere and-” Scott cut himself off with a flinch as a new, gut wrenching wail of pain came from the boy in the car, “Make him stop, please. I-I tried to draw his pain out, but I had never done it before and he keeps making those noises and just, please make him stop.” Even in the dark with only the jeep’s headlights and weak streetlights for light, Derek could still see the tears misting in Scott’s eyes past the rain.

Derek pressed both of his lips together in a long sigh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his now damp neck as he finally turned his gaze to the wrecked Jeep. “Fine,” he finally breathed out with a huff, digging his phone out and shoving it into Scott’s hand, “Call 911 and tell them to pull the lead from their asses and hurry.”

Scott nodded fervently and quickly dialed the three numbers, walking away just a bit and covering his other ear with a hand to try and drown out Stiles as much as he could so that he could hear the operator. As he did so, Derek made his way over to the Jeep and slipped through the exposed doorway where Scott had kicked out the door. Derek swallowed thickly as he finally took in the extent of Stiles’ condition. He could feel an intense amount of pain originating from Stiles’ head area that was almost like a heat radiating from him and it almost made the rest of Stiles’ pain pale in comparison. 

Making sure that there wasn’t a visible injury beforehand, he rested his entire palm and fingers over the injured boy’s neck, shushing him in a tone that almost sounded too gentle to be coming from Derek. Black veins weaved their way up Derek’s arm and Stiles’ keening faded into small whimpers.

Derek was sitting in an almost awkward way, one leg in the wrecked jeep, the other dangling out the side. He looked outside of the wreckage in time to see Scott walking over to the jeep and hanging up the phone. “They’re on their way,” he said, rubbing a hand up and down his arm anxiously. Derek watched as Scott’s adam’s apple bobbed unevenly as his eyes instantly went to Stiles - he could almost feel the worry and fear for his friend coming off Scott in waves.

“You know, all of the law enforcement who are going to be here in just a few minutes are going to have a lot of questions as to why I’m here,” Derek said in a deadpan voice, not yet removing his hand from the boy.

Scott nodded silently, offering Derek his phone back. Derek instead shook his head and used his free hand to push Scott’s hand away. “Hold on to that so that they know how you contacted them. The very first hint of sirens I hear, I’ll get out of here so that I’m not on the scene and I’ll meet you at the hospital so you can give me my phone back, alright?”

Scott was quiet as he showed his signs of agreement, eyes still darting away from Derek now and again to look at Stiles. Derek too looked over at the boy, “He’s hardly even conscious. He’s probably not going to remember much of this. It looks like he hit his head pretty hard,” he trailed off. Head injuries were always a risk in horrible car accident and there was a bit of worry in the back of Derek’s mind. Because... Stiles was a bright kid; his brain probably the most impressive part about him. And it made Derek’s stomach turn to think that he could lose that brightness and... well, everything that made Stiles _Stiles._

“I- What does that mean?” Scott asked softly. Derek didn’t answer, eyes still on Stiles as the black on Derek’s arm faded away and he let his fingers slip away from Stiles’ neck. He simply turned his eyes over to Scott and met his gaze before pulling himself from the mangled jeep.

“I’ll meet you at the hospital in about two hours.” Before Derek’s feet hit the ground, Scott could hear the distant sirens. Scott wanted to thank Derek for coming, but he couldn’t find the words past his worry. He tried to swallow past the feeling of being choked as Derek started his car and pulled away from the scene. And Scott was left standing alone in the rain, eyes wide like a lost puppy and completely clueless as what to do.

But, not two or three minutes later, the sirens got closer and three cop cars skid to a stop on the street near where Scott stood - followed by a firetruck and an ambulance. The night was lit up with an array of reds and blues and whites and it made Scott’s head ache; he just wanted them to get Stiles the help he needed.

He turned over his shoulder as he heard one of the squad cars’ door slam, his heart dropping to his feet when he saw the officer who stepped out of it. Sheriff Stilinski looked more and more confused by the moment when he saw the teenager standing on the scene, looking years longer because of the fear that consumed him. And because of that fear, the Sheriff didn’t go straight to accusing him of just being on a scene because he was being a ‘nosey teenager’. “Scott? Scott, what the hell is going on?” he asked him, concern lacing his authoritative voice.

Scott couldn’t find the words to answer him, everything getting caught in his throat and failing to reach his lips and he covered his mouth with a hand and shook his head, rain dripping off the tips of his hair and spreading every which direction as he did so.

The Sheriff opened his lips to speak again, as if he was going to ask something, but his eyes fell on the mess of the jeep and all of the color drained from his face. “I-Is-” his voice cracked dangerously and his throat worked to try and form words before he cleared it and tried again, “...Is that Stiles’ jeep?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the original name for this fic was 'I'll Be Seeing You'. Also, I have a tumblr: iamnightbird. Keep yourself posted for my next chapter. You're all amazing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale is convinced he can protect his pack from anything. Kanimas, other packs, even the supernatural that remain myths (like demons and the such), but an event hits him like a punch to the gut to remind him that the things he can’t protect his pack from are the everyday horrors in which life makes us her bitch. [Blind!Stiles]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you all for waiting patiently for my update. I hope you enjoy Chapter 3.

Scott looked at the time on Derek’s phone that he still had, even though the Alpha was sitting in another of the plastic chairs at least ten feet away. The chairs were horribly uncomfortable, and that in itself Scott didn’t understand. Especially since they were not in the regular ER waiting room – they were in a more secluded ‘family’ waiting room with a tiny TV that only got about three stations. Said TV was flickering silent white noise since neither male had bothered to find anything to watch. There was also a pile of magazines in the corner on the table (things that nobody really reads such as _Southern Living_ and _Home Décor_. Things that someone who’s loved one is in a critical condition would not be overly interested in) that hadn’t been touched.

6:53am.

Hospital waiting rooms. Scott, by now, was used to the obnoxious, sterile smell that accompanied the hospital, practically a _taste_ that seeped into your senses and lingers. With his mother’s profession, he could almost turn a blind eye to it – or rather a blind nose. But, right now, in this moment, that was virtually impossible. Every scent, sound, and sight was hypersensitive to Scott and his worried, exhausted mind. He forced out the bright fluorescents by squeezing his eyes closed tightly, dropping Derek’s phone into his lap, and bowing his head down into his open hands.

Derek had yet to say anything to Scott in his approximately thirty minutes there, aside from a small grunt of acknowledgement when he’d located Scott in the waiting room. 

Scott had ridden over to the hospital alongside Stiles in the ambulance, knuckles forced unnaturally white from how tightly he was clinging to Stiles’ hand. And the sick feeling in his stomach from seeing Sheriff Stilinski had still not yet dissipated.

\---

_Scott felt almost rooted to the spot as the Sheriff brushed past him in order to get to the wreckage that his son was trapped in. He turned over his shoulder, taking a few steps so that he could turn more fully, and he struggled to try and get down the lump forming in the back of his throat. “S-Sheriff…” he started with a squeak, but it wasn’t quite loud enough to be heard – that or the Sheriff was too absorbed in getting to his son. Scott didn’t blame him._

_The werewolf pressed his lips together in a thin line as a small noise of distress vibrated in the back of his throat, pressing his hand over his mouth once more as he watched the Sheriff climb into the wrecked vehicle alongside his son._

_The firefighters on the scene were trying to get the Jaws of Life ready as quickly as possible so that they could get Stiles out. Scott fluttered his eyes shut and tried to block out the noises around him - specifically Sheriff Stilinski. Because he didn’t want to hear-_

_“S..-Stiles?” the father croaked out in a tone that Scott would imagine is how his voice would sound if he was being strangled. Scott could only_ just _refrain from covering his ears with his hands in an effort to block him out. And, yet, something possessed him to slide his eyes open and glance in the direction of the destruction of Stiles’ precious jeep - and the young boy within it. He would later regret that._

 _He was barely able to swallow the dry heave that threatened to rack his body as he watched the Sheriff’s trembling fingers reach out for the boy that was only less than a few feet away from him - a_ human’s _eye would’ve easily seen the quiver that spread throughout his arm as his fingers hovered over his son’s hair before they curled into his palm and he pulled it away._

_The elder Stilinski shifted against the ruined leather, both hands now suspended just over his son as if he was afraid that he would shatter at the slightest touch. It wasn’t a ridiculous notion, really, with how gut wrenchingly broken Stiles looked in that moment amongst the bent and twisted metal._

_And what caused Scott’s heart to fracture at his feet was the way the composed Sheriff’s face crumbled and fell apart at the noises of pain that were elicited from Stiles with a renewed, sickening sense of raw terror that weakened Scott to the core. At that point, the Sheriff didn’t hesitate to reach out for the younger’s hand, cradling it in both of his wide palms. In a voice that no one else would be able to hear, if it wasn’t for Scott’s advantage, Scott could hear a desperate, low whisper that he would’ve said was a plea (but Greg Stilinski didn’t_ plea _for anything), “...Stiles. S..Stiles, please. Stiles, look at me. Talk to me. St-..” his voice cracked and broke off painfully in a way that made it feel like Scott’s stomach was ripping in half._

_But there was nothing he could do to tear his eyes away from the two as the Sheriff’s fingers laced into Stiles’ hair, beginning to mumble something even incoherent to Scott’s ear. Just the way that the father clung to his baby boy in such a way broke Scott’s heart in ways that he didn’t think possible - seeing the older male’s fingers gripping to Stiles’ hand so hard that his knuckles paled starkly in contrast to the rest of his skin._

_Past the Sheriff, Scott could see Stiles fading faster into unconsciousness - and part of him just wished he_ would. _So that he could at least stop hurting. Though, the logical part of Scott knew that Stiles going completely unconscious couldn’t be anything but bad._

_Right before he slipped under the barrier of consciousness, a weak and barely audible (but still there) voice was heard - it sounded muffled and ruined, “D..dad...” Fingers twitched in the Sheriff’s hand and Stiles fell completely under the influence of the darkness._

_\---_

Scott was jolted back to the present by the strong scent of coffee being shoved practically right under his nose. He snapped his eyes open, almost causing his chin to fall from where it was propped on the pad of his hand. His calf was asleep from where his elbow was rested against his knee. He blinked a few times to bring the overly bright room into focus. The first thing he saw was the plain white styrofoam cup inches from his face that smelled heavily of horrible coffee. The second was who was holding it, Scott’s eyes tiredly trailing up the attached arm and to the owner of it. “Isaac,” he greeted, voice so rough that it even surprised himself.

“Take it,” Isaac grunted, shaking the cup just a little, “I’ve been here for an hour and you haven’t budged. And you look like shit.” He added the last part almost as an afterthought.

Scott gave a small groan as he sat up, his back popping all the way down as he did so. He took the cup, instantly setting it down on the table beside him so that he could stretch out more fully. Tired muscles griped and ached as he did so. Isaac plopped into the plastic chair on the opposite side of the table where Scott had laid his coffee. Slouching once more, Scott trailed a hand through his hair that looked like it probably needed attention, “What time is it?”

As if it was the question he had expected, Isaac’s phone was already drawn, “Nine thirty-nine in the AM, sir,” he answered before redirecting his gaze to Scott.

Scott made a face as he suppressed a yawn, taking a better look around the tiny waiting room. Derek was no longer there, and neither was his phone. “Derek. Derek was here earlier, where is he?”

Isaac gave a one-shouldered shrug, leaning into the chair and stretching his long legs out in front of him, “Dunno. I passed him coming in, but I didn’t really think to ask him where he was going.” He fell quiet for a moment before, “Heard any news about Stiles? He awake, yet?”

Scott let out a soft noise, dropping his head forward. He had managed to go around five conscious minutes without the ill feelings in his stomach about his best friend. Isaac noticed this and automatically regretted asking. “...not a clue,” came Scott’s soft answer.

Isaac was about to say something else, but before the words could even form themselves on his tongue, two voices down the hall that picked at their wolf ears distracted them.

 _“I don’t care if you like him or not, you said you were going to spend today with me, and I’m spending the day_ here. _So either you suck it up, or you break your word and leave.”_ That was Lydia. And Scott could only assume that the frustrated huff that followed it was Jackson.

Not too long after that, the door to the small waiting room opened and they were graced with Lydia Martin’s presence; a reluctant looking Jackson in tow. Jackson almost immediately retreated to a chair in the corner of the room, going into a position of passiveness as if on reflex, crossing his arms over his chest. And, almost as if an afterthought as his eyes fell on Scott. “Look what the wolf drug in. McCall, you look like shit.”

Isaac perked up a little, gesturing towards Jackson, “Right? I _just_ said-” he cut himself off and he looked over at Scott, mumbling, “Sorry, that’s not helping, is it?” before retreating back against the chair again.

Scott huffed in reply, eyes closing for a moment as he scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Scott couldn’t remember feeling more anxious or on edge in his entire life. Even with all of the hell they were put through with lizard-mode Jackson and Gerard. The room fell quiet for a long moment, an awkward feeling hanging in the air that made Scott’s throat feel tight.

What was probably ten minutes later, the door was pushed open again and there stood Derek. From what Scott remembered at the dark scene, and when Derek came to the waiting room earlier that morning, Derek had changed clothes. And from the smell wafting across the room, he had showered as well.

The oldest in the room said nothing as he picked a chair closest to the door, sitting down slowly before his eyes seemed to carefully pick out each person in the room before they settled on Scott. He said absolutely nothing, which was unnerving simply because it was _Derek._ And even Lydia looked a little uncomfortable with his silent, brooding presence.

Isaac broke the silence, eyes rising from his phone, with, “Erica says she’s sorry she can’t make it to the party, Boyd and her went to-”

Scott, so suddenly that Isaac almost dropped his phone, rose a hand to shush the other boy, “Stop talking,” he snapped, eyes narrowed at the door as if it would give him the answer to all of his current problems. “My mom and a doctor are talking to Stiles’ dad.”

Scott knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but now that his mother was almost forced into Scott’s secret, she didn’t expect anything less from him. Especially when it came to his best friend. His hand stayed in the air as he listened, his face unreadable and set.

 _“...as I was telling his nurse, I just got out of the neurologist’s office as we were going over your son’s MRI scans,”_ the doctor was saying. Scott recognized it as the doctor’s ‘I have bad news and I’m trying to pad the fall with my soft as silk tone’ voice. His mom used it all the time.

He could almost see Greg’s features shift in confusion through the walls in his mind, _“Neurologist? A_ brain _doctor? Why?”_ His voice sounded a little panicked. And if there was that little panic on the surface, Scott didn’t want to think about what was under it.

There was a sound of scraping chairs against the linoleum floor and Scott assumed that the doctor (he had an idea that it was Dr. Conner, but he wasn’t sure) had Greg sit down. “ _Mr. Stilinski. We...”_ the doctor cut himself off and he could hear a soft whisper that was his mom before she took over.

Scott heard the sound of a paper being shaken out, _“Stiles hit his head pretty hard during the accident. This is not uncommon at all, especially in car accidents where the car turns over at least once. From the MRIs, they were able to tell that he sustained an injury to the back of his brain. To be more specific-”_

Scott would imagine that Greg stopped her there, hearing an audible, heavy swallow before, _“S-Stiles injured his brain?”_ was heard in a slow voice as if he felt, and hoped, he had heard her wrong.

Melissa continued in a gentle tone, _“The area damaged is in a lobe of the brain called the Occipital Lobe. It was most likely injured by his head hitting with a blunt force against the headrest of his seat. Centralizing the injury, we think-”_

Everyone’s attention was shaken as Scott stood abruptly to his feet. He would’ve knocked the chair he had been sitting in over if it hadn’t been pushed up against a wall. He made a beeline for the door, despite what sounded like Isaac calling after him. He pushed open the door of the family waiting room and disappeared down the hall.

Isaac stood in the center of the room, looking shocked and unsure of what to do. Jackson’s expression had even softened a considerable amount, his eyes on the tiles. It was clear that both boys had also been eavesdropping on the conversation, but they broke their concentration when Scott had stood.

Derek, however, still looked as if he was listening. His eyebrows were knitting inwards and his head tilted to the side just a little.

 _“...We don’t want to give you any false hopes, especially when most of it is written out in black and white. Brain injuries are very messy things since the cells of the nervous system cannot regenerate or repair themselves. We..”_ the female had hesitated before continuing. She sounded troubled herself, _“We don’t think that Stiles has much of a chance of being able to see again. We have to wait for him to wake up to know anything for sure, but … having hope for anything is unlikely.”_

There was a long silence before the Sheriff spoke up in a meek voice, _“A-Are... you telling me what I think you are?”_

Lydia was looking from male to male to male, “Look- I don’t appreciate being left out of some private wolf intel, alright? One of you should tell-”

Derek was the one who cut her off, eyes drifting over to the redhead as he did so. His chest rose and fell slowly before he spoke, “Stiles is blind.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although it will be elaborated on later in detail, the injury that Stiles has sustained is a brain injury called 'cortical blindness'. It is blindness caused from a trauma to the occipital lobe. The injury is most common in automobile accidents and football mishaps.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale is convinced he can protect his pack from anything. Kanimas, other packs, even the supernatural that remain myths (like demons and the such), but an event hits him like a punch to the gut to remind him that the things he can’t protect his pack from are the everyday horrors in which life makes us her bitch. [Blind!Stiles]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again for being patient. Enjoy the new chapter.

Stiles was woken up by a constant, obnoxious beeping. It was a steady cadence played out electronically. It made his ears burn, and despite how much he wanted it to stop, every beep helped to fight through the groggy fogginess in his mind. He was barely awake. It felt as if he was floating right below the surface, watching the light of the sun refract against the water. But, somewhere he was aware of how stiff and heavy his muscles felt. And that was what prompted him to try and shift a hand – plus the fact that he could feel a secluded warmth encasing his hand. 

The bed sheets shifted as he managed, with great effort from his still semi-unconscious mind, to move his hand and whatever was wrapped around it a centimeter or two. He then registered the sound of a breath hitching, although he was still too far-gone to do anything with this information. The pressure around his hand tightened, but not unpleasantly.  In fact, if he was any more awake, he would say it was comforting.

“Holy shit,” a voice croaked, cracking dangerously several times as the owner seemed to struggle through the curse. The sound of a chair scraping against the linoleum floor was heard faintly. “Stiles? Stiles!” Then, louder, “ _Melissa_! Get in here!”

Why was he yelling so _loud?_ Stiles was _exhausted_ and just wanted to let the welcoming fog take him under again. But, before he could allow that to happen, fingers that seemed to be attached to the panicked, phantom voice carded into his hair and scratched gently at his scalp. “Stiles, son... It’s all right. You’re alright now.” The voice sounded like it had been forced years older than the person it actually belonged to, and somewhere in him, it hurt. As the voice murmured, he could feel hot, shaky breathing near his forehead.

He knew that voice. He knew that voice better than he knew his own. However, his throat felt thick and he didn’t think he could even get out a whimper if he tried to do so. While he did try, the only noise that escaped was a soft, weak whine. That same voice whispered more nonsensical words of attempted comfort as the trembling fingers in his hair continued to cradle the side of his head.

Another detached voice joined the first, but this one female and almost just as familiar to him. The female voice addressed the first voice, but he couldn’t force his scrambled mind to focus on it enough to understand the words spoken. Besides, who could focus with that constant intonation of the beeping, pounding against his head still as if it was a physical pain prodding?

Though, through the fog, he was eventually able to pick something up.

“Will he be…?” the male voice started softly before trailing off.

The female evidently picked up on his meaning and answered, “Cognizant?  Yes, the brain injury is to the back of his brain, the radius of it only around his vision centers.”

Brain injury? That was the only two words that his mind could wrap around as it pushed even further to the surface – or at least tried. Because he wanted, no he _needed,_ to know what was meant by ‘brain injury’. Were they talking about him? It would make sense; they were both gathered near him and talking over him in hushed tones. Except… No, that didn’t make sense. That didn’t make sense at all.

Because… _brain injury?_ That couldn’t be right. Someone had to be mistaken – or they had to be talking about someone else. A _brain injury_ was a nasty thing, and it wasn’t something that happened to Stiles.

Though, come to think about it, there was a dull, insistent pain at the back of his head where it was rested against the pillow beneath him. And… _oh…_ there was that hand again in his hair, almost desperately trying to pull him to consciousness.

“Stiles?” he heard the female say, voice coming in as muffled to his brain at first. “Stiles, sweetie, can you hear me?”

Of course he could hear her. How did she expect him not to when she was getting increasingly closer to him? Gentle, soft, small fingers wrapped around his free hand, “Stiles, squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

It took him a few moments to respond, but eventually he _did_ squeeze. Though, it was more of a prolonged, exaggerated twitch rather than a squeeze. But, the woman accepted it and moved her slightly cool hand away.

“It might take him an hour or two to fully come to through the trauma he sustained and his medication, but this thus far is a very good sign.”

\-----

Scott had went home after his mother had practically dragged him out of the hospital. He had needed some food in him and some _sleep_ so that he didn’t go insane. Jackson and Lydia left; Jackson had kept complaining about the smells, and the people staring, and the boredom, and... well, you get the point. Isaac, too, eventually stood up and left - so why was Derek still here?

Derek was beginning to feel a little out of place as some strangers filtered into the small waiting room, so he grabbed the long-cold coffee and stood with the intention of leaving. He crossed the room, dropping the cup into the trash as he did so, and pushed the door of the family waiting room open - filing into the halls of the hospital.

The alpha wanted to pretend that passing Stiles’ room wasn’t out of his way. But, no matter how much he pretended, the fact remained that it _was_ out of his way. Even if he didn’t know the room number, he could’ve still found it easily. Both with Stiles’ scent (however masked by the too-clean antiseptic stench it was) and the strong smell of whiskey from the Sheriff. The _recent_ strong smell of whiskey; clinging to his Sheriff’s jacket and wafting off in something that was just as noticeable as his distress and worry. Derek didn’t blame him in the slightest.

What made him pause, however, was the sound that his ears picked up passing the room that a normal passerby wouldn’t notice. Stiles. Stiles was surfacing to awareness for the first time since he had been there. And that meant he didn’t-

Derek should really leave now.

But, that didn’t stop him from leaning against the opposite wall from the barely cracked hospital room door, occasionally looking at his phone to make it seem like he was waiting on someone or something. He tried to catch a glimpse inside of the room, but all he could see was the foot of Stiles’ bed and the silent, muted flickering of the TV that his dad had been no doubt zoning out to. Hardly helpful.

Then he heard it. A voice so soft and fragile that it _really_ shouldn’t belong to Stiles. But it did. Almost so small that it was childlike. Panicked and raw. “D-Dad? Dad?” It was nothing more than a breath, but Derek could hear the Sheriff’s heart pick up quickly. Derek gathered that Greg had been coaxing Stiles to the surface with gentle words of comfort and encouragement.

“It’s okay, Stiles,” he whispered, his own voice sounding broken far beyond his years in way that made Derek _know_ that he was deathly worried about his son. “I’m right here; everything is alright.”

“Da-” the word sounded like it got caught in his throat, a rattling noise heard before a few harsh breaths replaced it. “W-Why... Why can’t I see you?” The fear in Stiles’ voice didn’t belong. It was foreign and out of place. Derek wanted to rip apart whatever put it there. Because that was _real_ fear. Not the usual ‘oh, this situation could be dangerous’ fear, but the fear that settled in your stomach like a bad infection. It ate at you and consumed you, making you feel hollow inside and out. And that type of fear did not belong to Stiles Stilinski - _should not_ belong to Stiles. It should not belong to the boy who ran with wolves and laughed in the face of the alpha who could very well rip his throat out with a slight flick of his wrist. 

The wolf inside of Derek wanted to whine. Wanted to cry out and scream. Tear and rip. But, instead, Derek set his jaw tightly and ran a hand through his dark hair - the locks sticking up askew in multiple directions as if it was unfamiliar with itself.

Derek sometimes forgot that there were things that could still hurt his pack that weren’t related to werewolves in any shape or form. Because, Stiles was as much of his pack as any of the wolves - whether Stiles actively accepted it or not. But, Stiles was just that; human. Breakable and fragile. His skin didn’t heal like Derek’s. Like Scott’s. His bones wouldn’t mend as quickly - his body wasn’t as strong.

With great effort, Derek was able to push away the words exchanged between the father and son - because the moment felt far too personal even for him. And intruding felt _wrong._ He focused on other things. The crying of the baby two doors down from Stiles’ room. The complaining of two Techs gathered around the nurses’ station. The sound of a doctor giving orders to interns. Because he wanted to hear everything but -

But that haunting sound that he would not be able to block out, no matter how hard he tried. A sound that tore painfully from the back of Stiles’ throat - making Derek’s stone cold heart crack right down the center in a way that almost left the male breathless. It felt like a sharp stab to the gut - like he had just been winded time and time over. It was a sound that Derek would never be able to get rid of in his memory as long as he lived. It was a gut wrenching dry sob that tore out of Stiles with such emotion that it was a wonder the entire hospital didn’t hear it. He could hear it over Stiles’ heart monitor, the pulsing of the blood in the boy’s veins, the hard hammer of the Sheriff’s heart, the flicker of the static against the TV - _all of it._ It almost _physically pained_ Derek to listen to - and there was no way he could stick around after that.

He quickly moved from his spot against the wall, going as fast as his feet would carry him without breaking into a sprint. He didn’t even take the elevator, he breezed through the stairs and out into the parking lot, making a beeline for his car.

As he started his car and slipped on his seatbelt, he finally indulged himself in letting out a raw sound of frustration and pure helplessness - burying his fingers into his hair as he dipped his head down and tugged lightly at the hair between his fingers. He felt a nagging, tearing sensation at his stomach that made him ache to the core. He wasn’t able to protect Stiles. Stiles was blinded, and Derek was _useless_ to help him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, thanks for reading. I'll give you a small hint that you wouldn't have to wait too long for Derek and Stiles to finally interact. How does next chapter sound?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale is convinced he can protect his pack from anything. Kanimas, other packs, even the supernatural that remain myths (like demons and the such), but an event hits him like a punch to the gut to remind him that the things he can’t protect his pack from are the everyday horrors in which life makes us her bitch. [Blind!Stiles]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long, this chapter was a huge speed bump that took me _forever_ to get over. So, big thanks to my beta reader, Abby, who helped me out a ton in this chapter.
> 
> Enjoy.

Two days. It had been two days since Derek had last been to the hospital. And no matter what Isaac said, he was absolutely _not_ brooding sulking, or avoiding _anything._ It’s not like Stiles was alone at the hospital. Unless he was mistaken, even Boyd had visited him unprompted the day prior. According to Erica, Boyd brought Stiles a few comic books because he mentioned that Scott had been reading him his older ones that were beginning to completely fall apart.

Finally, _finally,_ he found himself in his car en route to the hospital. He was clueless on the etiquette required here. Was he supposed to bring anything? Flowers seemed cruel and inappropriate, given the situation. Stiles didn’t seem like a “stuffed animal” type person. …maybe food? If anything at all. He was tempted to text Scott to ask his opinion, but his curiosity might be mistaken for something more,  then questions would be asked, and Derek just didn’t want to open that door. He racked his brain for food that Stiles was fond of. Although, the boy would probably prefer _anything_ to the hospital food. At first, the cookies from the scene of the wreck, wet and soggy, crossed his mind and he suddenly felt very sick to his stomach. _No_ cookies.    

In the end, Derek just decided he was going to only take himself – bringing anything with him would lead to questions that he probably wouldn’t be able to answer despite a simple ‘I don’t know.’ Besides, Stiles probably wasn’t expecting _him_ to come, much less him come with anything.

Hospitals made Derek’s skin crawl. It gave him a vague memory of burnt flesh - because of Peter, no doubt. It made every hair on his neck stand on end and it made his wolf anxious and restless.

He recalled the room Stiles had been in days prior, assuming that it was the same one. Even if he wasn’t in the same one, given some time he’d be able to find him. Although, a strange man wandering aimlessly in the halls would be a little... out of place, to say the least. Thankfully, after he waited anxiously in the elevator and making his way out the doors, he was relieved to find that the boy was still in the same room as before. The same room where he had heard the very beginning of the heart wrenching conversation between father and son.

Coming to the room, his eyes were drawn to the label on the door. It read simply ‘213’ and ‘ _Stilinski’_ in the transparent slot where the name was replaced each time a new patient filtered in and out of the room. Stiles was far more than a name on a piece of paper, more than symptoms on a clipboard, but - as far as _some_ of the nurses and doctors here were concerned - that’s _all_ he was.

They didn’t know the half of what he was. And that made it ten times worse. They didn’t know Stiles, they didn’t know just how... _Stiles,_ he was. Although, there were times that even _Derek_ didn’t even know the half of what Stiles Stilinski was. The young, hyperactive teen continued to surprise and throw him off guard time and time again. And, Derek didn’t know it, but the younger was about to derail him once more with his ridiculous stubbornness that he wore as some kind of shield. A form of strength that didn’t come from a bite, but from a reservoir that Stiles could draw from. A strength a thousand times more effective than brute strength. 

Hovering in the doorway that was half open, Derek was able to peer into the darkened room. He was about to have a thought of how strange it was that the light was out - but then he remembered, and it made his stomach twist. His eyes were drawn to the flickering TV in the corner where an rerun of _Friends_ was on the screen - the low volume still drowning out the constant beeping of the heart monitor and other machines by Stiles’ bed. Derek, believe it or not, was well versed in _Friends_ episodes - it being one of Laura’s favorite past times. The one character, Ross - if he remembered correctly, was trying to fling himself through a door while his friend (Chandler?) was on his back and trying to pull him away. He caught a ‘ _People need their juice, man!’_ from the Ross character before he pulled his gaze from the TV and to Stiles.

He imagined the TV was just something to try and distract Stiles, the sound at least. When his eyes caught sight of Stiles’ form in the hardly lit room, it _then_ occurred to Derek that maybe he should’ve knocked first. He was sitting up in the bed, the bed raised a few inches behind from where he was slouched. He could feel pain radiating off the boy, and perhaps the way that Stiles was sitting was not the healthiest for his injuries. Derek imagined that Stiles had a few cracked ribs and the slouched position put stress on them. His unseeing eyes were focused on the too-white bed sheets that his legs were crossed over. The hospital gown hung loose on his small framed body, long legs awkwardly sticking out underneath. He could see bruises littering his pale skin alongside his freckles - decorating the skin with yellows, purples, and greens.

Stiles was alone - which concerned Derek a little. Knowing Stiles, he probably shooed with father out with a ‘ _Go to work - I’m fine. Really, I am. You need to go to work.’_ Scott and the others were in school and Melissa was working in other parts of the hospital. Leaving Stiles alone in the new prison of the dark. And that alone made Derek’s heart ache inside of his chest in ways that he didn’t know was exactly possible.

Finally, after what seemed like forever of watching the unmoving boy, he knocked gently on the door, causing it to push open further and bounce noisily against the wall, “Stiles?” And, Derek then proceeded to watch possibly the most unnerving thing he ever had chance to witness. Stiles’ almost broken (if he could go as far as that description) expression did a _complete_ 180 as his head tilted up and his long lashes fluttered. He watched a smile force itself onto Stiles’ lips - although it didn’t reach his eyes. It didn’t create the wrinkles across his laugh lines. And Stiles’ _eyes._ He didn’t know what he was expecting, but they looked _the same._ Of course they would. It was a brain injury and not one to his actual eyes - but...

Still, they seemed to lack a certain luster that made them belong to Stiles, and that in itself was a punch to his gut.

“To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the big bad alpha to?” he asked, shifting on the bed and moving to lay back against the raised bed and pillows behind him. As Stiles spoke, Derek walked further into the room until he was right by Stiles’ bed. He lowered himself into a chair that someone, probably the Sheriff, had pulled next to his bed. He watched Stiles flinch a little at the sudden noise of the chair scraping against the linoleum from Derek’s weight dropping into it.

Derek spoke up, eyes looking everywhere but the boy at this point, “I came to check on you. See how you were doing.” Stupid. How stupid did that sound? His eyes fell on a fast food bag that sat on the small table on wheels they put their meals on. He could smell that it was a few hours old - and it also smelled as if it hadn’t been touched. No doubt the Sheriff had brought it to him on his break and Stiles just left it be. 

“Well, check away, Sourwolf. I’m fine. Peachy. Fucking _spectacular._ Hell, hunky-dory even! You can go back to your life of were-puppies and training, and leave me alone.” A tone of bitterness had wormed its way into Stiles voice. It sounded foreign and harsh. Like something had taken root in Stiles and wouldn’t let go. It made Derek sick to hear it. To hear just how broken Stiles felt.

“Did Scott send you ‘round to come check on me while he was at school? Because _I’m fine_ and I don’t need you, or anyone else, checking up on me like some child.” It wasn’t that Stiles didn’t appreciate _visitors,_ because he did. It was someone coddling him like a five year that he couldn’t stand. His father had learned not to do it, but Scott still hadn’t gotten it through his head that Stiles saw a thin line between help that he needed and help that was too far. Stiles was building up a wall that was too thick to knock down and eventually, it was going to crack and tumble down with chaotic results. And no doubt it would leave Stiles in its wake.

Derek fell quiet for a long moment, unsure of what to say. He felt like he was treading on uneven ground that could break at any moment. This type of reaction was not one he expected from Stiles, although he probably _should’ve._ His fingers fumbled at the wooden arms of the chair as he pressed his lips together with a long, audible sigh. Stiles allowed the silence, the only sound being his medical machines that surrounded the bed, making him look so small in the mountains of sheets and wires, and the sound from the TV that Derek was trying to tune out. Because the laughter tracks from the show did not fit the moment at all.

After what seemed like hours, though (according to the clock on the wall) was just mere minutes, Derek finally cleared his throat and, “Stiles.” The boy didn’t respond too much, eyebrows raising to just acknowledge that he heard Derek and was listening. Derek hesitated for a moment, because he _knew_ Stiles wouldn’t like what he was about to say. But, whether the boy liked it or not, he was somehow a part of his mix-matched pack. And Derek protected that, because that was all he had left to protect. And _Stiles_.... Stiles was Stiles. And that needed to be safeguarded. 

“Stiles,” he repeated before continuing, “There is a way we could try.. Try and fix _this.”_ He didn’t want to say ‘fix you’ because that would be implying that Stiles was broken. And although, by the noises he had heard that drove him away from the hospital before proving it to be near true, he didn’t want to make any accusations. “And, even if it didn’t, it can still make you stronger. Make it easier to cope and-”

Stiles wasn’t stupid. Stiles was a lot of things, but _stupid_ wasn’t even close to being one of them. He cut Derek off with a scoff and began, “The _bite?_ Really, Derek?” Though, Stiles couldn’t pretend he wasn’t expecting it from _one_ of the werewolves, at least. It coming from Derek, though, was a surprise. “It’s a long shot, I’m sure. Right? I _know_ what’s wrong with me. Stiles Stilinski has a brain injury - does the _bite_ fix that?” he asked, voice still ringing bitter in a way that Derek didn’t like. “Long shot,” he echoed, “The only thing worse than a stumbling, clumsy werewolf, the one _I_ would surely be, is a _blind_ werewolf. It’s just putting yourself out in the middle of shark infested waters saying ‘I’m an invalid wolf. Come and kill me now’.” He shook his head, “No _thanks.”_

Derek frowned deeply, absolutely hating to see what this accident had done to Stiles. But, everyone coped differently. Anger and lashing out seemed to be Stiles’ way. “Fine,” he mumbled, standing to his feet without much of a warning. He gave another glance at Stiles before wordlessly heading out the door and down the hall. It wasn’t until he got to his car that he thought he probably could’ve told the boy he was leaving. 

Somehow, he still worried intensely for the teen. So much so that it made a tight feeling swell up in his chest at night like someone had an iron grip on his heart. He couldn’t pick out _why_ he was so worried, but he was all the same. And he didn’t like the idea of Stiles being all alone at the hospital in the darkness.

So Derek came at night. Not because he didn’t want to talk to Stiles, and not because he didn’t want people to see him there. No, he came for a much more trivial reason. He couldn’t stomach watching the way Stiles acted during the day. Acting as if nothing was wrong. According to Scott, he still gave his stupid sideways grins and his dumb sarcastic remarks to the others. He complained about the hospital food and acted like his world _hadn’t_ just been turned completely upside down. And it made Derek feel ill because… he didn’t know how he was really coping. He wanted to grab the kid by both shoulders and shake him – tell him that he’s _not_ stone and he needs to stop acting like it. Because, when a stone eventually gets over its head, it sinks instead of rising above. And Derek didn’t want to watch Stiles sink.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let the readers know, I am super excited to write the next chapter. I have awesome things planned. So, don't let Stiles' bitterness deter you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale is convinced he can protect his pack from anything. Kanimas, other packs, even the supernatural that remain myths (like demons and the such), but an event hits him like a punch to the gut to remind him that the things he can’t protect his pack from are the everyday horrors in which life makes us her bitch. [Blind!Stiles]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happens to be my longest chapter thus far, although hopefully not the only one that will reach this length. This is also my favorite chapter so far, and the one I was looking forward to writing the most and I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> I have references used for this chapter in the end notes.

It was three and a half months later that Derek found himself woken by a knock to his apartment door at ... _Christ._ Who was at his door at seven in the morning? He gave a small groan, rolling onto his side and rubbing a hand over his eyes. The knocking continued before he was forced to call out, “Hold _on!_ ” to whomever was at the door. Scrubbing at the back of his neck, he swung his legs off the side of the bed before standing and slipping on a pair of nearby sweats. Leaving his bedroom and crossing the small living room to the door, he caught onto Scott’s scent.

Derek opened the door, a hand scratching at his chest and started speaking before the door was even open, “Scott, this better be good or-”

Scott stood there with two textbooks and a few folders, shoving them at Derek and hitting his solid chest, “Take those to Stiles while I’m at school,” he said, not even caring that he was cutting Derek off mid-morning rant.

Derek let out a soft _oomph_ as the books came in contact with his chest, moving both hands to grab the items and look down at them in confusion. “Why can’t you take them to him?” he asked, looking back up at the boy. “You’re his best friend. Isn’t that like.. your job, or something?”

“On a weekend yes. However, I need to get to school and can’t stop by Stiles’ house. I’m running late as it is.” He looked at Derek, puppy eyes melting his resolve. “Please, I’ll make it up to you, somehow..”

Derek let out a heavy breath, bare chest heaving as he did, averting his eyes from the younger wolf and gripping at the doorway with a shake of his head and letting out an exasperated, _“Scott.”_

Scott rolled his eyes just a little, almost unnoticeable, before, “It’s not like you’re not going to go by his house, anyway. It’s just less creepy this way.” Derek turned his eyes back on Scott and glared, Scott giving him a look of _you know I’m right,_ head tilted to the side and eyebrows raised.

“Fine, I’ll do it.” he muttered, “Now get to school before I change my mind.”

He gave Scott a small growl that vibrated in the back of his throat that was supposed to be threatening, but the boy merely shook his head and turned over his shoulder, mumbling something like, “Somebody is touchy today” and Derek had half a mind to chuck one of the books at him. But instead he dropped the books and papers on a table he kept by the door and closed his door, going to take a shower.

\-----

 

Not for the first time that day, Stiles was chiding himself for telling his father to go to work. But, that didn’t mean he regretted making him go. After three months in the hospital and they finally cleared him to go home, his father seemed like he was permanently sewn into the carpet of the house. Watching over Stiles like an eagle and making sure that he didn’t so much as trip over himself. He had been home for fourteen days (he had been counting) and it was then that he _finally_ persuaded his father to go back to the station. _“I’ll be fine, Dad. Go to work. Everything will be alright,”_ he had said.  

Everything that could’ve gone wrong _was_ going wrong, and then some. He knocked his lamp over in his room and broke the bulb, not daring to try and pick the pieces up and just _barely_ managing to feel through the mess of wires near his outlet so that he could unplug the lamp. He then proceeded to lock himself out of his bedroom, unable to find the key needed to slip into the small hole-like lock on his door to unlock it. He knew that his father usually kept them in a small bowl on the kitchen counter, but he was unable to locate it. In fact, the table felt completely bare – especially as he rested his forehead against the cool wood and let out a frustrated noise when he realized the bowl wasn’t there. He ran a hand over his hair, which he noticed seemed to be getting longer since he wasn’t bothering with getting it cut (he had more important things to worry about). He straightened himself back up and took a few, deep composing breaths. Maybe if he cleared his head, waited for his father to get home, everything would be fine. He could sit down on the couch and maybe have a glass of water. He could do that, right? Getting a glass from the cupboard and getting water from the faucet wasn’t hard.  

So, that’s what he was going to do. Using the wall as a guide, he padded his way into the kitchen. When the carpet under his bare feet disappeared and was replaced with tile, he slipped a hand instead onto the kitchen counter until he was under the wood of the cabinets.

Truth be told, Stiles should’ve probably sat down before even making the trek to the kitchen. Despite his plan to calm down, he was still completely on edge. Heart hammering against his chest so hard that it felt like it was trying to escape. Breathing level knocked up a few notches. Fingers trembling. He should’ve known better. Because things tended to snowball when one was already frustrated. 

He fumbled for a moment before his fingers came in contact with the handle of one of the cupboards, opening it before using his other hand to maneuver around and try and grab hold of one of the cups. The cups were half-hazardly stacked on the shelves and his fingers knocked against a few of them. One fell against the counter, cracking and bouncing before falling against the floor where it shattered. Stiles jerked his hand away with a reflexive gasp, taking a step back. When he snatched his hand away, he snagged a few more cups and this created a domino effect where the cups rained down – following suit of the first one. Stiles took another large step back, his back colliding with the island in the kitchen. Once he did, he couldn’t stop his knees from buckling as he slid down the surface of the island until he was sitting on the floor.

He felt it coming on. Slowly and all at once at the same time. It made his stomach twist and it made his ears ring. And the fact that he knew it was coming made it all the worse – pulling him down faster and deeper like struggling against a current. His brain felt like there was a giant game of tug of war going on throughout the day, between him and some unknown force, and that unknown force just severed the rope and left him with the black lash. Throat tight and breathing heaving, a feeling settled on his chest like a semi-truck.  He felt like he couldn’t breathe, even while gasps of air were tumbling past his lips and his quivering fingers buried themselves deep in his hair, finding purchase in his now longer locks to grab hold of and tug loosely. He bowed his head down as he raised his knees close to his chest. He was trying to make himself as small as he felt. His head was pounding and he vaguely wondered if it were possible for it to explode. Millions of little bits of Stiles would be everywhere. In some messed up part of his mind, he felt that should’ve been comedic. It wasn’t.

While he knew it wasn’t logical, part of him felt like the walls were closing in around him. Stiles had never been claustrophobic in any shape or form, but he pulled even more so into himself – his knees began to creak and ache. 

He hadn’t had a panic attack since he was young, and he had been foolish enough to think that he had outgrown them.

-

Derek stood on the other side of the door, books in hand and grumbling something under his breath about Scott. He raised a hand to actually knock for once, but stopped midair as his ears caught the boy’s heartbeat. It was dangerously erratic – and listening closer, his breathing was as well. Past that, he could hear gasps of breath that sounded  like it was tearing at the young boy’s throat. It registered all too quickly in Derek’s brain. _Panic._ At first, he had no idea what to do. Derek didn’t do well with his own emotions, much less others’. But he wasn’t going to stand by awkwardly on the porch and listen to this. A quick once over of the porch rewarded Derek with the spare key that was kept under a cat bowl on the porch that looked like it had been unused for years. He unlocked the door and dropped the books on a table by the door. “Stiles?” he called, voice strong and loud.

Stiles was paying no mind to it, though. Trying not to drown in his blind panic. He was, at this point, clutching so tightly to his hair that his knuckles paled dramatically in contrast to the rest of his already pale skin. Derek didn’t wait for an answer, following Stiles’ heartbeat into the kitchen and rounding the island. Derek was selfishly glad that Stiles couldn’t see him, because the sight of Stiles completely broke his composure for a split second and his usual steady, flawless expression of neutrality shattered down the middle. 

He quickly pulled himself together and dropped down to his knees in front of Stiles. He didn’t know how to handle this, but he knew how _not_ to. He knew the things _not_ to say, but it would be more helpful if he knew _what_ to say. The boy before him was trembling and the wolf inside of him longed to comfort. Nuzzle and lick his wounds clean. Except, these wounds weren’t external and couldn’t be licked clean – no matter how hard he tried.

“Stiles,” he murmured, voice so soft that it almost sounded foreign coming from his lips. He reached out slowly, as to not spook the boy, and untangled Stiles’ fingers from his hair. He then wrapped his fingers around the boy’s wrists and held them gently, pulling them away from Stiles’ scalp entirely. “Stiles. You need to breathe, okay? Breathe with me, you can do that, right?” he requested, voice still soft – as if to try and ease Stiles’ fall back down to reality. He, almost on instinct, ran his thumbs up and down the soft skin on Stiles’ wrist and he took a few deep breaths himself.In and out. In and out. He waited until Stiles began to mimic him, whether it was subconsciously or not, before a small, small sense of accomplishment swelled in him.

Stiles’ shaking subsided just a little, enough to make Derek not as concerned. The boy’s head was still ducked down, but his entire stature seemed to become less tense. His heart rate slowed down just a bit and his breathing fell to a more comfortable, controlled rhythm as he continued the deep breaths. Derek let Stiles’ hands fall, making sure that the boy didn’t let them just let gravity take them over. As Stiles withdrew his hands into himself, Derek stood. He took a few paces away before Stiles spoke for the first time since he’d been there.

His voice was small and cracked a little, not surprising for the attack that Derek had found him in the middle of, but it still made him wince a little, “Derek?” It was in question – as if he thought Derek had suddenly disappeared into the darkness that Stiles now called home.

Derek answered a simple, “I’m still here.”

Stiles nodded very slightly, “I… I’m fucking everything up. I-I… I locked myself out of my room. I broke all of the glasses and … and..-” Derek held his breath for a moment as Stiles spoke, because he could hear the panic building up in the male’s chest again.

“It’s okay,” he offered, “It’s okay. I can clean the glass up for you and I’ll unlock your room.” He didn’t reproach him, though, as his eyes scanned the dining room that was next to the kitchen – his eyes catching a certain object in the corner. He spoke again, it seeming like he was veering off subject, “I didn’t know you guys had a piano.”

Stiles let out a startled noise from the back of his throat before shaking his head and dipping it down again, “Yeah… my mom used to play. Dad, for some reason, pays to get it tuned still. Even though neither of us knows how to play.” Derek understood – it was Stiles’ father’s way of still holding on. Stiles seemed to appreciate the change in subject. The distraction.

Stiles could hear Derek’s footsteps switch from cold tile to carpet floor – the footsteps becoming more muted. “Derek?” he called after him, raising his head while he tried to strain his ears and hear where he went.

He received no answer, and although he hadn’t heard the door, he began to think that Derek _had_ disappeared into the darkness. Until, at first very soft, a melody began to fill the entire house. It made his breath catch in his chest and stutter almost painfully. Blind eyes widened and he used the island counter to pull himself to shaking legs.

Someone was playing the piano – and it _had to be_ Derek. But, he was finding it hard to believe that something so beautiful and something that flowed so easily was coming from the wolf. The notes felt like someone was just floating across the keys. Like his mother used to.

Of course he recognized the song. And, although there was no one singing, the words echoed in the back of his head.

_I’ve heard there was a secret chord. That David played and it pleased the Lord._

Stiles was slowly making his way to the dining room, once more using the counters and walls for guides. He didn’t like not having ahold of something, it made him feel like he was floating. Holding onto something made him feel… well, _anchored._ He paused in the doorway to lean against the threshold there, allowing his eyes to flutter shut as the music escalated to a new level. He took a few quivering breaths and could almost feel Derek’s eyes on him. But, Derek did not waver in his playing. Stiles took a few more steps into the dining room, hand shooting out to find the table. He gripped it, using it to lead him the rest of the way into the dining room.

His knee collided with the cushioned piano chair and he stopped walking. He hesitated for a moment and his body felt like it needed proof that it really was Derek playing. He removed his hand from the table and used both to rest against Derek’s back - long slender fingers half-hearted with their touch at first until he layed his entire palm of both hands against the middle of Derek’s back. If the sudden touch bothered him, Stiles couldn’t feel it. Derek didn’t tense up, or make any noises like it bothered him. So, Stiles ran his hands up the male’s solid back and near his shoulder blades, feeling Derek’s muscles work under his hands as Derek’s moved up and down the keys.

In a voice so sudden that it almost made him jump, Derek spoke a simple, “Sit.” It was a command, but it wasn’t in any way harsh like the majority of his commands. Stiles dropped his hands and did as he was asked – finding that Derek had sat on the far side of the piano bench to leave him room.

He reminded himself to later ask Derek how he knew to play, but for now he let himself enjoy it. He even felt a smile pulling at the side of his lips. And, as Derek neared the last verse or so, he couldn’t stop it from growing. He was practically beaming, really.

Derek turned his attention, once more, to the doorway. He had, of course, earlier heard the Sheriff’s car pull in. (Probably home from work early to make sure Stiles was okay – or maybe on lunch. The latter was more likely.) Derek had heard the door open and heard the man waver when Greg heard the piano being played - the stumble in his step to hear a sound that had not filled their home since his wife died. The confusion was more than understandable. When he knew the older Stilinski was in the doorway, he looked. And his look of confusion turned into something more. He was, at first, very thrown off to see _Derek Hale_ of all people here. And on his piano. But, his eyes soon moved to his son and Derek watched his eyes, eyes so similar to Stiles’ (except they could see), mist over. So Derek followed Greg’s gaze to Stiles, and at once he saw what elicited that emotion from the father. Stiles looked _happy._ Happy for the first time since his accident. It was a smile that Greg feared had been taken with his sight. Greg and Derek exchanged a look as Derek finished the song.

“Again?” Stiles requested, a smirk that was remnant of his old self in place…  and Derek complied as Greg turned and left his spot against the doorway. Derek heard him go upstairs for a minute or two before leaving the house once again completely.

This wouldn’t make Stiles better. This wouldn’t take away his hurt. But, for a little while, they could both pretend it would.

  
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek was, of course (if you recognized by the small line of lyrics I put), playing a version of Jeff Buckley's _Hallelujah_. [This](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mJK4U65Q0Kc) is the cover I had in mind when writing it.
> 
> [ This](http://25.media.tumblr.com/fe6c7049a9ab2fd12dc38ad23852e9b7/tumblr_mltdn70sA41qmc3fpo1_1280.png) is the view of the piano from the kitchen doorway. And, if you're interested, [this](http://24.media.tumblr.com/98422537aa8040d2247c87576966cbf9/tumblr_mltdn70sA41qmc3fpo2_1280.png) is a more head on view of the piano.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale is convinced he can protect his pack from anything. Kanimas, other packs, even the supernatural that remain myths (like demons and the such), but an event hits him like a punch to the gut to remind him that the things he can’t protect his pack from are the everyday horrors in which life makes us her bitch. [Blind!Stiles]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this chapter up sooner, but it ended up colliding with final's week, so.... Also, I wanted more to happen in this chapter, but when writing my words got carried away and adding all that I wanted to would've made it too long in my opinion. So, I decided to separate the events a bit more. Enjoy.

Derek stayed until Greg got home. Something about leaving the blind kid that he walked in on having a panic attack seemed wrong – even if he had seemed to completely turn the situation around by making him smile. And, god, that smile. About the fourth time Derek played the song through, he looked at Stiles. And, while it’s true that he looked at Stiles to gauge the reaction that the Sheriff was so emotional over, he didn’t actually look at Stiles. Even though this was the fourth time Derek had played this song through (“I do know other songs, Stiles”), Stiles was still grinning ear to ear.  The kind of smile that almost looked like childish wonder – bringing a spark to his eyes that Derek hadn’t seen since Stiles’ jeep crashed against the tree. And it made something in his heart warm – and, yes, Derek did have a heart. It just wasn’t used often for things other than pumping blood through his veins.

It amazed Derek the amount of strength that this boy had – lost in a vast sea of darkness and the simple joy of piano music and pulling him out of it; at least for a little while. Of course, there were things about Stiles that managed to surprise him all the time. Like the time he jumped in the pool to pull his paralyzed ass to the surface and held him there for two hours when he was just sixteen. Or when he was seventeen and managed to single handedly catch a goddamn banshee on fire. Or, that same year, he managed to somehow trick a succubus into a devil’s trap by pretending to be affected by her charm. (Erica is convinced that this is proof that Stiles’ crush on Lydia is just a cover up.) Stiles could do so much, he was such an asset, and the thing was he was only human. The fact that a human had so much inner strength continued to baffle Derek to this day. He watched Stiles grow from an awkward little teenager to something more – and yet when he spoke the majority of the time, it was still claws against a blackboard in Derek’s mind.

In Derek’s mind, Stiles was still the sixteen year old with curious, large eyes and the stupid buzz cut that made him think of a child who had gotten gum in their hair and their parents were forced to take an electric razor to it. But… the boy sitting beside him on the chair was something different. Something much more than that sixteen year old in his mind. He was an eighteen year old, in the prime of his senior year, who had just been knocked down by life on a staircase. By a car accident. Not by wolves, or demons, or other supernatural creatures. But by life’s stupid accidents that reminded Derek how human this boy was. Because he wasn’t Scott, or Isaac, or Erica, or Boyd. He didn’t heal like they did. He couldn’t take a break of his wrist and be better a minute later. He couldn’t get thrown around like a ragdoll and brush it off like nothing happened. And, somehow, Derek sometimes forgot how fragile the kid was - how breakable he was. The fact that Derek couldn’t protect Stiles from this... it left a bitter and horrible taste in his mouth. It wasn’t the fact that he wasn’t there... it was that he couldn’t protect him. He accepted that, and he hated it.

Derek was realizing that Stiles was more than just that annoying sixteen year old. Somewhere between pack meetings (that he wasn’t supposed to be invited to, but the wolves wouldn’t kick him out when he brought pizza and sodas), him being sprawled out in a big mess of limbs on his apartment floor with the rest of the pack while he brooded in his room, and him being caught in life threatening situations on almost a daily basis, Derek had somehow missed that he had grown attached. Not to that sixteen year old boy, but to the wonder of this now eighteen year old who was stronger than the disability he was now plagued with.  It was awe-inspiring. That someone so...weak, was so capable of these Herculean feats of strength.

How had he missed all that Stiles was? All that he had to offer? Was he really that blind? So afraid to open himself up to feeling anything again that he almost missed that there was this whole person here that he could possibly allow himself to care for. Because, Stiles was not Kate. There was nothing about him that resembled her in any shape or form. Stiles was loyal to a tee - he wouldn’t dare betray the ones he claimed to care about. That was one thing about Stiles that he could count on, how he so blindly cared for the ones he loved. Stiles would probably do anything for them. He could see Stiles going as far as dying for a few. His father. Scott. Stiles was immoveable on his loyalty. And, somehow, this boy had needled and snaked his way under Derek’s skin and found a home there. And without Stiles, or even Derek, noticing.

Stiles was now perched on the top of the counter of the island in the kitchen, bare feet dangling off as he bounced his heels against the sides of it and he picked at the sandwich in his hands. “Too much peanut butter and too little jelly, but it’s suitable and we’ll work on it next time” Stiles had said after his first few bites. And the next time left Derek wondering – but he tried to brush it off to Stiles just having a slip of tongue.

Derek was cleaning the broken glass off the floor, placing them in a separate garbage bag than the one already in the trash bin. “You said your mom used to play, can you?” Derek asked, breaking the silence so that Stiles wasn’t sitting alone in the quiet dark.

Stiles shook his head, not waiting to swallow his bite that he was working on before, “No. I can play a scale, but that’s it. Mom tried to teach me once, but I kept getting distracted and I rathered listening to her play than trying to learn. I’ve been meaning to try and teach myself, but…” Stiles trailed off, a frown forming on his lips before taking another bite. Derek fell quiet, unsure of how to reply to that. He knew he probably needed to speak, but before he could come up with anything, Stiles was talking again, “Mom had a bunch of sheet music in the piano bench,” he started. Derek straightened up, looking at the piano bench in question from the kitchen and saw that it indeed looked like the seat was capable of opening. “If you want, you can take a look through them and see if there’s anything you like. Dad and I never even touched it.”

Derek merely hummed in response to that, but he kept glancing over at the piano and bench while he made sure that every shard of glass was clear off the floor.

They talked for a while more until Derek helped Stiles into the living room and onto the couch. Stiles laid himself out, saying that he was just going to rest his eyes for a moment while Derek took the glass to the trashcan outside, but when Derek came back, Stiles was fast asleep.

Derek had seen Stiles sleeping before – the kid had an uncanny talent of being able to fall asleep virtually anywhere. But, somehow, he looked a bit more vulnerable. Unseeing eyes closed and lashes fanned across his cheeks. Knees curled up to his chest and making him and his long limbs almost look small. But, goddamn, the kid was a sight. Derek had noticed before, of course, but he had ignored it. Because he could not allow himself to do much else.

Derek watched him for a moment before moving to grab a blanket that was draped over the couch and instead threw it over Stiles. Stiles stirred only a little as Derek more-or-less tucked him in on the couch, a soft groan vibrating in his throat from the comfortable warmth of the blanket. Derek shushed him softly, and (curse him) Derek was unable to stop himself from carding his fingers through Stiles’ soft hair before he caught himself and jerked his hand away as if he had been burned – shocked by his own actions.

He swallowed hard and took a few steps back from Stiles, curling his fingers into the palm of his hand and holding his breath for a long moment while he decided what to do. He couldn’t just leave – not while the kid’s bedroom door was still locked. Then Derek remembered back to Stiles telling him about the sheet music, so he decided to busy himself with that because he wouldn’t be able to justify leaving Stiles alone.

Walking back into the room with the piano, he knelt beside the bench and opened it; three neatly organized piles of loose sheet music and books greeted him, along with a musty smell that alerted him to just how long it had been since it had been touched.

The piece of music on the top of the loose sheet music stack caught his attention. The white was a little faded to an off color, the pages wrinkled and notes jotted all over it in pencil – the writing eloquent. Stiles’ mother’s. He picked up the score and took a better look at it. The title of the song rung a bell, from an animation about a lost princess that Laura made him watch far too much for his liking. “Once Upon a December” was the piece, and in the top corner were words, written in pencil that was slightly smudged, but it made him realize why it was settled on top. Stiles’ mother had written “Stiles’ favorite” in small, cursive writing.

Before he could allow himself to think too much about it, he heard the Sheriff’s car pull up in the driveway before shutting off. Derek set the music on the piano instead of back in the bench and straightened up.

Derek met him in the entrance hallway. Greg didn’t look as surprised this time, tucking his hands into his pockets, “Derek,” he greeted simply.

Derek ducked his head in greeting, “Sheriff.” He paused for a moment, looking over his shoulder into the living room before back at the older man, “Stiles is asleep on the couch. I had been coming to drop off his school work that Scott gave me and he was in the middle of…” Derek hesitated, trying to a find a good way to word it.

But, before he could, he watched as the Sheriff’s expression changed and softened and he spoke. “Panic attack?” he asked, tone soft and gruff – and filled with worry. His voice sounded as if he hadn’t had proper sleep in a while. And… well, he probably hadn’t. When Derek nodded wordlessly, Greg sighed. Rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, he continued, “He used to have them all the time after his mother died. I really hoped they were done because they terrified him as a kid.”

Derek nodded a bit, “I think it was just starting when I got in the door, he was overwhelmed. He dropped a bunch of glasses out of the cabinet, I guess trying to get a drink. He locked himself out of his bedroom. That’s all that I know of – there might be others. But, I cleaned up the glass in the kitchen while he was eating.”

Greg obviously had mixed feelings about Derek, but for the moment he pushed them all to the side because of how happy Stiles had seemed when he was playing. “Derek,” he began, voice still soft, “Tomorrow, while I’m at work, can you come by and move around some furniture a bit? I keep meaning to myself because Stiles keeps running into it and I just don’t want him to hurt himself and-“ 

“You want me to keep an eye on him?” Derek interrupted, and the Sheriff stopped and gave Derek a look like he had seen right through him. Instead of answering verbally, he sighed and nodded. “I’ll be here at ten,” he answered, ducking his head once more before brushing past the older Stilinski to go to his car.

Starting it, before he pulled out, his senses picked up on Greg’s voice. He couldn’t make out the exact words, but they were soft and warm. He heard Stiles groan a little in protest of being woken and a very soft and small, “Daddy?” before he pulled out and left.

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale is convinced he can protect his pack from anything. Kanimas, other packs, even the supernatural that remain myths (like demons and the such), but an event hits him like a punch to the gut to remind him that the things he can’t protect his pack from are the everyday horrors in which life makes us her bitch. [Blind!Stiles]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides*  
> Alright, guys. I'm so sorry this chapter took me so long. See, I had specific things I really wanted to put in this chapter, and I wanted to make sure they were written right. And every time I sat down to write it, the words wouldn't come. Also, I picked up a second job since I'm trying to move, so that's cut my time a bit. But, I finally have the chapter up for you. So, please enjoy.
> 
> Reference used for the song Derek plays in this chapter: [[x](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=272sWc_KemA)]

Stiles woke up to the sound of music. Not the whole ‘ _I am sixteen, going on seventeen_ ’ sound of music, but actual music that rose through the house and traveled through every nerve in his body and woke him slowly – like lowering himself into a warm hot tub. He blinked himself awake, noticing that he was on his bed instead of the couch where he recalled laying down. But, it took him a moment longer to remember that his father had woken him and helped him back upstairs.

The music was coming from downstairs – it was piano music. It wasn’t a constant music. It would start and go for a while, then trail off with a wrong note or two; like someone was trying to figure out how it worked. Like his mom would when she was learning a new song.  And, as he pulled himself from the bed and used the wall to guide himself to his door (leaving it _open_ so that it didn’t lock this time), he found he knew the song far too well.

Now, if you sat down eight-year-old Stiles and asked him what his favorite movie was, it would vary from day to day. _But,_ it was never the movie that the song derived from. The movie was alright, he supposed, but that’s not what he liked about it. It was the main song of the movie that was heard time and time again. When he first watched it, his parents were surprised to find that the tune lulled the usual hyperactive child to sleep; tucked tightly against his mother’s side. After that, his mother learned it on piano and would play it for him often – Stiles’ young, high pitched, and _very_ off-key voice belting out the lyrics throughout the Stilinski household.

So, when he heard the song floating its way around the house once more, for the first time since his mother’s hospitalization, it forced him to swallow a thick lump in his throat and seek out the source of it. He splayed his long fingers out against the wood paneling beside the staircase, slowly lowering himself down stair by stair.

The player restarted bits of the song two or three times before Stiles made his way to the bottom of the stairs, then beginning to use the wall as an anchor to guide himself towards the dining room where the piano resided.

Derek, of course, knew Stiles was coming the moment he heard his bedroom door open – and never shut again. And he kept a careful ear on him to make sure that he wasn’t going to hurt himself. Derek used to be so much better at sight-reading, but it had been so long since he learned a new piece that he was actually having to sit and study the score – leaning forward now and again to look at the notes before playing a few measures and seeing how it sounded. Derek turned his eyes just a bit as the younger male made his appearance in the dining room. His wide, unseeing eyes looked almost adolescent as they stared at nothing – almost as if he was convinced that another sense was betraying him and making him just hear that song.

He heard Stiles begin to croak something out, but caught himself within the first letter. Derek could figure out what he stopped himself from saying, though, and it made his heart ache a little. _Mom?_ Stiles cleared his throat; the young look being replaced by something different as he finally used logic. “Derek?”

Derek slipped his fingers off the keys to rest in his lap, moving himself over to the side just a bit incase Stiles decided to come and sit like he had the night before. For lack of better vocabulary, Derek simply greeted, “Hey.” He looked over at Stiles to notice that the boy was gripping hard to the doorway of the kitchen – pale knuckles ever more so whitened by his hard hold. “I… I dug through the sheet music like you said I could? I found this song – the state of the score made it look like it had been played a lot. Is this… okay?” Derek avoided telling him how it had _Stiles’ favorite_ scrawled on the top of it.

Stiles worried down on his bottom lip before nodding. “You can… keep playing,” he then spoke, softly as if he was trying to not disturb the mood that the music had set. With that, he took a few steps away from the doorway – and Derek noticed that he wasn’t holding anything this time. He was leading himself without a wall, or a table, as an anchor. Derek couldn’t stop the small smile that twitched at the side of his lips. Stiles’ knee made contact with the piano bench, wandering fingers seeking and finding the material of Derek’s wife beater so that Stiles knew where he was sitting. He gripped it for a moment or two longer than needed, but Derek didn’t call him out on it. The wolf merely waited patiently for Stiles to slip in beside him.

Once the music started once again, Stiles really wished that he had his eyesight. Because, otherwise, he just had to imagine how Derek looked playing. Did he look peaceful? Fingers dancing around the keyboard in a gorgeous ballet for two? Eyes angled downwards at the keys so that his long lashes were prominent and fanned out – causing shadows to splay down and across his cheeks? Stiles would be willing to bet that it was a sight to see – if only he could.

Derek, after a bit, stole a glance over at Stiles. Unlike the night before, Stiles wasn’t beaming. This was different. His sightless eyes were closed and he looked to be in another time. His lips were barely parted and, looking closely, Derek could see Stiles mouthing the words to it.

_Someone holds me safe and warm, horses prance through a silver storm. Figures dancing gracefully across my memory._

It somehow gave Derek a warm feeling in his stomach that he didn’t quite recognize.

After a while, the music stopped again – Derek was holding the sheet music and looking it over. Stiles’ voice startled him, “You’re wearing the same shirt you wore yesterday.”

Derek gave him a bemused look that he knew wouldn’t be seen – thus not having much of an effect, “What?” He corrected his question, “How do you know that?” It was true, though; Derek had slipped on the same wife beater he had worn when coming by Stiles’ the day previous.

Stiles reached out a hand, long fingers gripping at the material of the shirt, “It feels the same,” he told him, head tilting upwards while his eyes looked just past him. It was a little unnerving, but he knew that Stiles was trying. “Scott’s mom, while I was at the hospital, taught me how to see things with my hands. To make a mental picture in my mind with what I feel.” He paused before brightening, “Do you want me to show you?”

Derek felt his eyebrow quirk at that question, lips twisting downwards into a frown, “I- Sure…” he replied, a little uncertain.

Stiles grinned, something that Derek was beginning to really appreciate after Stiles’ accident. “Help me to the couch, I’ll show you.” After a moment of hesitation, Derek did as he was asked. He rose to his feet before slipping his hand inside of Stiles’, trying to ignore how he heard the younger’s heart stutter at the touch (and possibly his own), to help him to his feet. He then moved his hand to Stiles’ lower back and led him into the living room. When there, Stiles situated himself on the couch, tucking his legs underneath him and turning so that he was facing the opposite arm of the couch, “Sit in front of me,” he told Derek.

Now, Derek wasn’t fond of taking orders. But, this was justified as a request and not an order, thank you very much. Plus, Stiles had made him curious. Derek lowered himself to the couch, Stiles being able to feel the couch cushions shifting under Derek’s weight.

“The first way Melissa taught this to me was with face’s – it’s easier to start on faces you know than new ones that you don’t. But – touch is a very easy, and underappreciated, way of determining how something looks. Texture. Temperature. Whether or not it tries to bite your fingers off,” he said the last part with a half-hearted smirk. Derek seemed to be watching the old Stiles surface from this damaged one, and it made him much more relieved than he thought he could ever be.

He was snapped out of his musings when Stiles rose a hand to hover between them, “Can I…?” he asked, letting the question hang just as his hand did.

As Derek reached out, closing his hand around the outside of Stiles’ hand and bringing it to his cheek – fingers letting go…. As Derek watched with interest while Stiles’ fingertips ghosted over his cheek; hazel in deep concentration as they spread over his two-day old stubble… as he watched that all too familiar glint sparkle in his eyes as Stiles’ fingers danced their way over his brow… Derek realized he was looking at this all-wrong.

Derek had been dividing pre-accident Stiles and _this_ Stiles into two different Stiles. But, that was wrong. Very wrong. Because they were both the _same_ Stiles. Why wouldn’t they be? It would take more than a car accident and the loss of his vision to shatter who Stiles was as a person. Stiles had been lost for a while, and in many ways he still was, but it was all _Stiles._ That beautiful, wonderful boy. Curious and wide-eyed. All hyperactive, screeching, and flailing. So bright, so smart, so initially _broken._ But so impossibly strong that it rivaled the hearts of most wolves. And, as much as part of him hated to admit it, Derek was _proud_ of Stiles. Proud that the pack’s human was so much stronger than most people that they knew. And Derek didn’t know how to tell him, because words weren’t his forte. They were Laura’s.  And his mother’s. But, he took after his father in that aspect, trying to better communicate through grunts and wheezes. The occasional touch.

And, although he knew that touch was know something totally different to Stiles because it was something he relied so heavily on, the moment felt all too intimate. Albeit, Derek found that he didn’t mind. Didn’t mind as Stiles’ fingers traced their way along his strong jaw line and up around his laugh lines. “You’re smiling, Derek. I didn’t know that was even possible,” Derek heard Stiles tease. Stiles could’ve been talking the entire time, but Derek’s brain was elsewhere.

Almost on its own accord, Derek’s hand rose. As his fingers spread themselves out over Stiles’ pale cheek, Derek could hear Stiles’ breathing hitch and choke off somewhere in his throat- clearly not expecting the sudden touch. But, he made no move to brush Derek’s hand away. And Derek took that as a good sign. Stiles tried to make some retort, but it squeaked off into nothingness when he felt Derek shift against the couch – moving more and more into his personal pillow of air until he could feel Derek’s hot breath fanning across his lips. There was a pause, as if Derek was going to speak, but instead Derek’s lips sealed themselves very gently against Stiles’.

Now, Stiles would’ve been lying if he said that he had never thought of what it would be like to kiss Derek Hale. But all of the situations he had envisioned were a lot less… gentle. Derek was kissing Stiles like he was the most precious object he had ever laid hands on; like porcelain under his lips. Stiles felt a soft noise leave his throat and get muted against Derek’s lips. Derek’s hand moved to Stiles’ neck once Stiles registered that he was actually kissing him back – and he wasn’t just kissing him back, sometime while thinking Stiles’ hand had moved from Derek’s jaw and lip line to his wife beater and found purchase in the material there.

Around about the time that Derek’s thumb stroked an expanse across the line of Stiles’ neck, Stiles felt a small fire igniting inside of his mind. One that had been there before – and had been snuffed out by the accident at the same time as his sight. But, right now, he could believe that eventually… everything was going to be okay. This wasn’t the end of the world and he could deal with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not yet know how many chapters this will have, but I do have a definite ending planned out. I've had it since the beginning. And I hope to get chapter 9 to you much quicker than I did chapter 8. 
> 
> Also, to clear up a question; the truck driver who originally caused the accident has no significance - this highlighting the fact that everyday things are just as hazardous as "recurring villains" - just a simple hit and run by an idiot, probably drunk driver. 
> 
> Also, since I never actually went into detail for it in the fic (and by this point probably wouldn't); the condition Stiles has is called cortical blindness. It is caused by a trauma to the occipital lobe of your brain - which is in the very back. Injuries like this are commonly received from car/motorcycle accidents or football mishaps. Since this is a brain injury, and the brain is made up of nerves, this does not heal. If any of you have any questions on that, I will be glad to address them (don't want to have my research go to waste) - either here, or on my tumblr (with the same username as here).


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale is convinced he can protect his pack from anything. Kanimas, other packs, even the supernatural that remain myths (like demons and the such), but an event hits him like a punch to the gut to remind him that the things he can’t protect his pack from are the everyday horrors in which life makes us her bitch. [Blind!Stiles]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry this last chapter took so long for me to pump out. I had a lot of problems writing it because of some information that was given in canon. Namely, Deucalion being blind. I will go into further information after the chapter in the end notes, so... without further ado, he's the last chapter of Sinking Like a Stone.

Stiles didn’t know how he got here. Well, strike that. Yes he did. He just didn’t _understand_ how he got here. Home was _safe._ It was his safe zone – his haven. Nothing could hurt him there. Nothing could take him from there. He was wrapped with a blanket of security when between his own walls in his house. Or… so he thought.

_He should’ve known better._

He should’ve known something was up. Scott wasn’t coming around near as often between visits from Derek. And, visits from Derek seemed a little scarcer within the past week. It had been almost a week since Derek kissed him (and a few small, similar kisses since). Almost a week filled with a new song each day and Stiles continuing to be amazed that it was actually _Derek_ playing the music that helped him to sleep at night; calling on the memories of the sound of his piano to lull him to dreams.

He should’ve known that there was something going on with his werewolf friends. If he hadn’t been blind and he had just been... well, normal Stiles, it wouldn’t have bypassed his notice like this. And he wanted to kick himself for it. Hard. Because _how the fuck_ didn’t he notice?

They had taken him right out of his house. Stiles had been alone, and for one of the first times he was _okay_ with it. He had been making his way into the kitchen when he heard the splintering of the front door. It made him freeze – which was stupid. His instincts should’ve kicked in and he should’ve made some attempt to hide. Because, no one _friendly_ would break down his door.

\----

Stiles heard shuffling around and it didn’t take much for him to know who had him. Hell, to be perfectly honest, he probably knew the moment he heard someone in his house.

The chair he was tied to was wooden, the arms his wrists were strapped to felt old and almost rotten under his bare forearms. “Stiles,” a voice spoke, and never before did he think his own name held the power to send chills down his spine so harshly that his stomach turned. “One of the little puppies’ humans. When do you think they’ll notice you’re gone?” Stiles assumed the voice belonged to Deucalion. The young boy tightened his jaw so hard that it hurt to keep himself from speaking, twisting his wrists against the binds - the ropes chafing against his porcelain skin painfully. “You’re the little meddler. Always sticking your nose into places that it doesn’t belong. I was wondering why all the meddling stopped - it was endearing.” Stiles suddenly felt like Deucalion was closer, warmth radiating into Stiles’ personal space. “So, I did a little sticking _my_ nose where it may or may not belong.” He spoke as if he was bored, but then his voice took on a feigned sympathetic tone, “And I heard about your _unfortunate_ accident. I have decided, out of the kindness of my heart, to be the good samaritan that I am and help you with your little.... _problem._ I-”

Stiles could no longer stop himself from cutting the alpha off with a very human growl, trying to buck himself off the chair and being jerked to a stop by his wrists, “I don’t need your help!”

A laugh that made Stiles’ skin crawl reverberated out of the wolf’s throat, “I could make you so strong, Stiles,” he started, Stiles’ breath hitching as claws took hold of his chin - the boy trying and failing to jerk away from the sharp grasp. “All of your other senses will be so overpowered that you wouldn’t even miss your sight - take it from me; I don’t. Not anymore. I can help you do _great things,_ Stiles. I can-”

Stiles finally managed to successfully jerk his chin free, leaving fresh claw marks in the wake as he snapped, “I _will not_ be like you.”

Deucalion let out a weighed sigh of frustration before his voice took on a sharper edge, “So.. what, then? You’d rather _this?_ Sitting around weak, useless and helpless in the dark as a pitiful, _broken_ human?” He spat out the last word as if it was something foul tasting on his tongue. Stiles could hear him backing up.

Deucalion was still talking, but Stiles drowned him out. He was instead once more focusing on how _old_ the chair he was in felt. He made his mind up as he took a good three deep breaths to level himself. It wasn’t like he had a plan - he had no idea where he was. He didn’t know how small or large the room was. Or where the windows and doors were. He might’ve been better off tied to the chair, but he refused to sit around helplessly.  
He planted his feet firmly on the ground. “I can-!” Deucalion was spouting before Stiles made his world shift- and everything happened quickly.

He used all of his weight to push back on his legs - tipping the chair backwards. He cried out loudly at the impact; the chair splintering and breaking between his back and the concrete floor. _That’s gonna leave a few nasty bruises._ He scrambled not-so-gracefully to his unsure legs, ropes dangling from his wrist that he tried to get rid of while moving. There was no time to pause, because the _little_ (not even little, miniscule) hope he had depended on how fast he could be.

He made a _foolish_ and stubborn break for where he couldn’t hear any footfalls. “ _Grab him!”_ Deucalion yelled. He just ran, ignoring the thunder of their feet on the hard floor that was getting closer with seemingly no effort at all. No matter how hard he tried, he didn’t get but a few steps before claws (Kali’s?) were digging deep into his shoulders - a strangled cry leaving his lips. His knees would’ve buckled underneath him if it wasn’t for her claws painfully forcing him into an upright position.

His stomach sank as he felt another body by him alongside Kali. Another pair of clawed hands closed around his arms as Kali stepped away and there was the ghost of a breath on his neck that made him freeze. It wasn’t hard to guess what was coming from what he had heard Deucalion say, but it still felt unreal - like something that couldn’t actually be happening. There wasn’t even enough time for panic, but it still felt like an eternity to him from the moment he had been stopped until a set of fangs sunk deep into the sensitive skin of the crook of his neck. His cry was so loud, echoing off the walls and back at him, it sounded as if it had been forcefully torn straight out of his lungs - his throat and chest _burning._

\---

 

Stiles was missing. Stiles was _missing._ It was a constant mantra that almost drove Derek insane. The moment he got to the Stilinski home and smelled _them_ there, there was nothing that could stop him from tilting his head back and giving a long howl.

This led to him rushing to the McCall home in hopes that by some miracle, Stiles was sitting on the couch at Scott’s - just hanging out and laughing. _Whole_ and safe. Instead, he was met by a very confused Scott who was folding laundry in the living room - Scott’s expression faltering when he saw how _helpless_ Derek looked. His hazel eyes were wide and he actually looked a little paled. Scott tossed the shirt he had been folding back into the pile, almost scared to ask the question that fell from his lips, “What’s happened?”

“Stiles was taken.”

\---

 

This is what brought him and some of the others into the woods, scouting like mad for Stiles. Scott, him, and Isaac - trying and failing to catch his scent. Derek was growing more and more frustrated by the moment. He snapped at the other two wolves more often than not, demanding they try harder. _Harder._ Stiles had to be found. Had to be taken away from those alpha bastards.

Once or twice, they felt like they were closer. Like the smell of the alpha pack was stronger. From time to time, Derek thought he could pick up Stiles’ scent. But, no sooner than he picked it up, it was gone - washed away like after the rain. Only it was dry as a bone outside. The more they looked with no outcome, the more anxious and worried he became. And he could smell the same emotion reflected on the other two wolves. Derek was just so _frustrated_ and run to the ends of his ropes. He wanted to scream and howl. He wanted to tear the entire Beacon Hills apart to find the boy.

They had wandered on the outskirts of the forest, right near a few old abandoned factories, where the company either had gotten too large for the small building, or bottomed out completely. It _had_ began to rain by this point, and the water dripping down from Derek’s hair that was plastered to the sides of his forehead was washing away any hopes that he had left of finding the boy.

Then he heard it. Loud and chilling to the bone. A scream of helplessness and despair and _pain._ It was Stiles - he knew it was. He felt his fangs drop as his eyes bled red, blotting off before the other two wolves could even move. “ _Stiles!”_  Once the sound finally sunk into the senses of the other two, they were right behind him.

Despite the pouring rain, Derek could smell the alphas going off the complete opposite way. He was torn - burning a red hot anger inside of his stomach that made him sick. He wanted to go after them and rip them limb from limb. But...

He could smell Stiles inside the rotted out building. Stiles’ blood. Stiles’ pain. Stiles’.... _oh my god._ He could smell _wolf_ inside. And not just a wolf. A new wolf. Just bitten. Lingering among the smell of blood and rain. Fresh and wild and very, _very_ potent. Derek paused for only a moment right outside of the broken down factory, jaw tightening and a low growl vibrating out of his chest before he was continuing to rush inside.

Stiles was laying on his stomach on the ground, the long fingers of the teen’s hand shakily holding tight to a spot on his neck - dark crimson seeping out past his trembling fingers. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was shaking against the concrete floor. Derek tried to push the repeated chant out of his head of _He was bitten. He was bitten._ in favor of just seeing if he was _okay._ His feet moved almost not on his own accord before he was crashing down to his knees before the boy, red eyes scanning him and he used a claw to gently lift his chin up, “Stiles? _Stiles._ Are you alright?” The two other wolves fell in behind Derek, Scott’s eyes wide as the same untamed smell was hitting his senses, exchanging a look with Isaac as he tried to suck in a breath to even his pounding heartbeat out.

Stiles’ lashes fluttered open, eyes darting around the factory like a scared, cornered dog trying to locate his escape. Until they stopped abruptly on Derek. Derek’s face. His eyes. They _focused._ Derek felt his own heart jump up somewhere in his throat as all of his wolf features faded human out of shock - Stiles’ chin still held up on a more rounded finger. “...Stiles...” Derek started in a hushed, careful voice. As if something intangible in the moment might break if he spoke too loud. “Can... Can you _see me?”_

Stiles was quiet for a long moment, the honey of his eyes unreadable. His lips were barely parted as if he was struggling with the right words to use - hand still clutching at the crook of his neck. Derek heard an audible swallow as Stiles’ throat worked, a shaky inhale as if he was unsure that he could still breathe properly. When Stiles spoke, his voice sounded... shocked. Far away and hoarse. The breath before rattled and further provoked Derek’s anticipation, then, “Yes.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I apologize if you do not like the way that ended. But, Stiles regaining his sight due to the bite was always my original plan from chapter one, and even before I began writing. Which is why canon sort of messed with my idea a little bit. Since Deucalion is blind.
> 
> When Deucalion took Stiles with the sole purpose of turning him (in order to try and create havoc inside the pack(s)), Deucalion was not actually aware of several things. The most important of these is the source of Stiles' blindness; a brain injury. Deuc's injury was brought on, instead, by a physical injury to his eyes. In S1 we see the bite correcting Scott's asthma. In S2 we see it correcting Erica's epilepsy and, with the reveal of Gerard still being alive, we can assume that his cancer was cured by it. (Only to be replaced by the him being constantly poisoned from inside out with the wolfsbane.) Of course, we've also seen that both Scott's and Erica's aliments were not completely cured by the bite - occasionally having episodes of the former. If I were to continue, I would work in episodes of Stiles' eyesight working against him.
> 
> I do not make any claim to have this be completely medically accurate in any way - although I did try to the best of my abilities to make it somewhat believable. The brain injury is an actual disorder and it is common from car accidents and other traumas. 
> 
> I am now currently working on my monster project, [Define: Homing](http://profbadass.tumblr.com/post/52552567482/requested-by-iamnightbird-for-the-upcoming-story) (graphic made by the amazing Manu/profbadass). But, I wanted to get this fic done. It is my baby and I really, really hoped you all enjoyed it. I thank everyone for the kind reviews that I've received thus far.
> 
> I have ideas floating around for a one/two shot sequel, but I make no promises. Just... keep an eye out. Just in case.
> 
> Come love me on tumblr; [iamnightbird.](http://iamnightbird.tumblr.com/)


	10. AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hello friends, once again me. I don't know if it would've notified you that I put this now in a series -- and I listened to you guys and have began work on more of this. You can find my new project in this series [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3320264/chapters/7255790). Thank you for the support.


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